The Hawk and the Dove

by Penelope Wilcock

  Theo’s third bolt-hole was the abbot’s lodging, for he was often required by Father Peregrine to copy borrowed manuscripts for the abbey library, or to write at Peregrine’s dictation now that his own hands served no longer for more than writing brief letters of an informal nature. It was a relief to find in Father Peregrine someone more clumsy even than himself and even more likely than he to spill food on its way to his mouth, or send a stream of ale shooting over the edge of a mug instead of safely into the middle of it. Neither did Father Peregrine glare at him, or wither him with icy sarcasm when the door handle slipped out of his nerveless fingers and the door crashed shut behind him. On the contrary, he treated him with unfailing gentleness and courtesy, and Brother Theodore found himself more relaxed and less clumsy as a consequence in Father Peregrine’s company than with anyone else.

  It had been some while now since Brother Theo had had the opportunity to do any copying or illuminating, or to make any music. It was the time for the hay harvest, and all able-bodied brothers who could possibly be spared from their usual work had been helping with the harvest, from the reaping until it was safely gathered and stacked, the barns filled against the lean months of winter. It had been a good year, with a warm, wet spring and dry breezy weather for the time of the harvest, so the whole community had sweated to get the hay in before the weather should break. The harvest was in now, and none too soon, for the heavy, stifling heat threatened thunder and rain.

  With the barns full, the daily routine could be resumed. On the last day of the harvest, the brothers gathered in the community room after supper, weary and happy to relax for an hour before Compline.

  Father Chad leaned back against the wall with a comfortable sigh, stretching his legs out before him. ‘Your novices will welcome a day’s rest after the work they’ve put in this week, Brother,’ he remarked peacefully to Father Matthew, who sat beside him on the bench.

  ‘Rest?’ said Father Matthew in surprise. ‘No, we shall be back to work as usual tomorrow. The lot I have at the moment are so slow with their Greek we could ill afford the week we’ve lost.’

  Father Chad looked at him in disbelief. ‘Matthew, you’re jesting! They always have a day off after the harvest! Well, that is to say, when I was in the novitiate under Father Lucanus, we did….’

  There was a slightly chilly pause. ‘That possibly accounts for your difficulties with New Testament Greek, Father Prior,’ said Father Matthew with calm disdain.

  Father Chad, chastened, and unable to deny this deficiency, had no more to say.

  The weary young men were back to work at half-past six on the following morning, with barely time beforehand to swallow their dry bread and water on which they broke their fast after the first Mass. Having kept them at their study of Greek for the better part of the morning, Father Matthew rather grudgingly gave them the three-quarters of an hour that remained after the community chapter meeting and before the midday Office of Sext for their own private reading and meditation.

  Brother Theodore went up to his cell armed with a copy of Boethius’ De Trinitate and the Dialogues of St Gregory. It was warm, almost hot, in his cell on this lazy summer day, and Theo could scarcely keep his eyes open as he read, his body still pleasantly aching and fatigued from the week’s labour in the fields.

  In the end, he laid his head on his arms (‘I’ll just close my eyes for one minute,’ he said to himself) and slept as he sat: deep, satisfying sleep.

  He awoke with a start, and listened. How long had he been sleeping? There was not a sound, nobody about. He dashed down the stairs to the chapel, paused warily outside the door and listened. They were already singing the Kyrie Eleison; that meant the Office was almost finished. He groaned inwardly. If he went in now, he would have to stand by himself in the place of disgrace reserved for latecomers, for the third time this week. Then would follow a cutting rebuke from Father Matthew, and kneeling to confess his fault before the abbot, to be given yet another penance.

  Theodore’s courage failed him. Already this week he had been in trouble for breaking a mug, for coming late to the Office and to instruction, for knocking over a stool with a terrible crash, and for singing during the Great Silence after Compline. He hadn’t even realised he was singing! A new tune for the Magnificat was forming in his head, and he had sung softly without realising it as the phrases came together. Father Matthew, over-hearing, had hissed in his ear, ‘For shame, Brother Theodore,’ and scowled at him frostily. He had been loaded with rebukes and penances and admonition until he was weary of life and of himself.

  He turned away from the chapel door and plodded back up to his cell, where he sat down on his bed and stared gloomily at the crucifix on the wall, wondering what to do next. ‘Lord have mercy,’ he said wistfully, and then, ‘Oh, God,’ and sighed, and waited.

  Before long the Office was ended, and he could hear the distant sounds of the brothers making their way to the refectory for the midday meal. Should he go down and slip in among them, in the hope that Father Matthew had not noticed his absence in the chapel? Not a chance. Better to go now to the scriptorium and begin his afternoon work and hope to avoid Father Matthew altogether, at least until the evening.

  So Theo went to the scriptorium, sat down in his study alcove and looked at the page from the Book of Hours he was illuminating. He began to feel more cheerful at once, and was soon absorbed in his work, lost in concentration until the bell sounded for None, the afternoon Office. As soon as he heard the bell, he laid his work aside, determined for once to be on time, and bounded down the stairs to collide forcibly with Father Matthew at the foot of them, nearly knocking the wind out of the novice master’s body.

  Father Matthew looked at him with the expression of a man using extreme self-control. Brother Theodore began miserably to apologise, but Father Matthew cut him short. ‘You were not in your place at the midday meal, Brother, nor were you present for the Office. Have you any explanation?’

  ‘O God, O God,’ thought Theodore. ‘Now what?’ Then it was as though all of a sudden something snapped inside him, and he heard himself saying, ‘Father Abbot needed me to do some copying work for him, Father.’

  ‘And he detained you through the Office and the midday meal?’ asked Father Matthew in surprise.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘That’s not like him,’ said Father Matthew, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘It was urgent, Father. He has a manuscript on loan that he wishes to copy before it is returned.’

  ‘Very well, Brother,’ said Father Matthew. ‘It’s odd, though. He usually lets me know if he has to keep one of the novices from their instruction or from the Office. It must have slipped his mind. Anyway, make haste now, or we shall be late. You’d better get yourself something to eat afterwards; you must be hungry.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ mumbled Brother Theo wretchedly, and followed his superior into the church.

  It was in the peaceful hour after supper and before Compline that Father Matthew encountered Father Peregrine in the cloister.

  ‘I would be grateful, Father, if you would remember to tell me when you require Brother Theodore to work for you,’ he said, in tones of mild disapproval. ‘He has already been in trouble almost continually this month, and I am having to watch him strictly. Today he was missing from both the midday Office and the midday meal, but when I took him to task over it, I find he was detained by yourself. Father, it is difficult enough to try to teach him discipline. If I don’t know where he is it becomes impossible.’

  Peregrine’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he blinked at Father Matthew. Then he said, ‘What are the things he has been in trouble for?’

  ‘Father, the list is endless. He is careless, he is clumsy, he is late, he is noisy, he breaks things, he loses things; his behaviour is undisciplined in the extreme—why, last night I caught him singing during the Great Silence.’

  ‘Singing, you say?’ said Father Peregrine. ‘I would have thought he had precious little to
sing about!’

  ‘Exactly so, Father. I have done all I can. He has been rebuked, he has been given penance, I have admonished him repeatedly. I have even resorted to the scourge.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ said Father Peregrine thoughtfully, ‘and it makes it more difficult for you when you don’t know what he’s up to, or where he is, of course. I am too often thoughtless and forgetful. I ask your pardon. I have some work outstanding that I need him for in the morning. Perhaps you would send him to me.’

  ‘Of course, Father,’ said Father Matthew, and their conversation ended there.

  In the morning, Brother Theo, by a great effort, managed to be in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing, and arrived for the morning novitiate instruction feeling cautiously optimistic, to be greeted by Father Matthew saying frigidly, ‘Father Abbot requires you this morning, Brother Theodore. You are excused from your lessons.’

  Theodore’s mouth went dry as he received the summons, and his heart thumped as he trailed along the cloister to the abbot’s house. Did Father Peregrine know? He could not tell from the way Father Matthew had spoken. It was very possible that the novice master would mention his absence from Office and the midday meal, and then of course, Father Peregrine would have exposed his lie.

  Reluctantly, Theo raised his hand and knocked at Peregrine’s door, which stood ajar. ‘Benedicite!’ called a cheerful voice from within, and Theodore entered and forced himself to look his abbot in the face.

  ‘Good day, Brother,’ said Peregrine with a friendly smile. ‘I expect Father Matthew told you, I have some illumination work I need done. It is only a text for Master Goodwin from the village. He wants it for his daughter as a present for her child’s baptism.’

  Theodore stared at him, dizzy with relief. He didn’t know! By some miracle, Father Matthew had not asked him about yesterday. With luck he would never find out and Theo would be safe!

  ‘Yes, of course, Father,’ he said and walked to the scribe’s desk in the corner by the window, where parchment and inks, brushes and pens lay ready for him.

  Father Peregrine stood by his own table, selecting a book from a pile that lay there.

  ‘What is the text, Father?’ asked Theodore.

  ‘The text?’ said Peregrine absently. ‘Oh, it’s from the Book of Proverbs, chapter twelve and verse twenty-two: Abominatio est Domino labia mendacia: qui autem fideliter agunt placent ei.’

  ‘The Lord detests lying lips,’ translated Theodore slowly, ‘but he delights in men who are truthful.’

  He stood and looked at Father Peregrine, but he was busy with his pile of books, his back turned to him. Did he know? It was a very strange verse to choose for a child’s baptismal greeting. Theodore felt that familiar, horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. What now? Should he just write out the text and say nothing? Could he sit there all morning, carefully writing and illuminating such words, without owning up to his own lie?

  Father Peregrine turned and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Is something the matter, Brother?’

  Did he know? Theodore couldn’t tell. He loved this man, who had always treated him so gently and so courteously, and the thought of losing his respect was unbearable. To be clumsy and careless was bad enough in a monk, but to be a liar was despicable. But if he knew… if he knew and Theodore said nothing, he would be in even deeper disgrace than if he didn’t know and Theodore told him. And if he didn’t know, did not God know anyway? And what was the point in trying to please men, when you had done the thing God detested, and told a lie?

  Slowly, Brother Theodore knelt. ‘Father, I… I told a lie,’ he said. ‘I fell asleep yesterday morning, and didn’t wake up until the midday Office was nearly over. I didn’t go into the chapel. I told Father Matthew…’ Theodore struggled to keep his voice firm as he spoke. To his shame, he felt a hot tear escape from his eye. Father Peregrine waited and said nothing. ‘I said you had kept me here doing some copying work for you,’ finished Theodore bleakly. ‘I’m sorry.’ He clenched his teeth and stiffened his face against the tears. He had not known how much the abbot’s friendship had fed his hungry soul until now he had lost it.

  ‘God forgives you, my son, and so do I,’ Father Peregrine said gently. ‘Come and sit down and tell me about this, Theo.’

  When Theodore raised his eyes, he was greeted by a kindly smile. All his life he had been used to steeling himself against rebuke and censure, but the unaccustomed kindness was too much for him, and he buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. Father Peregrine sat down on the scribe’s stool beside him and waited for the storm to pass.

  ‘God forgive us, we must almost have broken him, poor lad,’ he thought as he looked on the bowed body, shaking in anguished weeping. He thought of St Benedict’s recommendation in the Rule, that the abbot should remember his own frailty and have a care not to break the bruised reed, or destroy the pot in his zeal to remove the rust. ‘The abbot in this monastery wouldn’t get a chance to break the bruised reed, if he wanted to,’ he thought. ‘Father Matthew’s in there before me, trampling on it in his tactless clogs. The scourge, indeed! Oh, poor lad, you have suffered. God help me now to find the right words and bring some healing there.’

  Theodore, who never had his handkerchief, scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Father Peregrine gave him his own handkerchief, and Theodore blew his nose noisily, and raised his woebegone face to look at him.

  Peregrine burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Brother, it’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘Get up off the floor, man, and tell me what’s been going on.’

  Theodore told him everything. Simply, and without defending himself, he poured out his pain. He told him about the misery of his boyhood, his hope of a new life on entering the community, then the lateness and breakages and the slamming of doors, his inability to please Father Matthew. Hopelessly he explained how he had tried and struggled and failed, and finally his courage had failed him.

  Peregrine listened without a word. Finally he said: ‘Father Matthew tells me you are careless and clumsy.’

  ‘He tells me it, too,’ said Theodore miserably, ‘and it’s true. I am.’

  ‘Brother Theodore, there is no one in this community with so fair a hand as yours or such a gift for illumination. I have never known you to mar your work or overlook a mistake. I know that if I ask you to produce a document for me, it will be legible, beautiful and accurate. I have never known you to be either clumsy or careless in your work. On the contrary, you make it beautiful with both artistry and conscientiousness.’

  Theo gazed at the floor, dumb and embarrassed in his happiness. The words were like ointment on a wound. It had always been impressed upon him that work well done was no more than his duty, and though his work had always been in demand, it had never before been praised. Father Matthew felt that his soul was imperiled enough without giving him cause to be conceited.

  ‘Now then, get up off the floor, my friend, and get to work on this text. Perhaps Master Goodwin would prefer something a little less menacing. Try Psalm 103 verses thirteen and fourteen: ‘Quomodo miseratur pater filiorum, miseratus est Dominus, timentibus se. Quoniam ipse cognovit figmentum nostrum, recordatus est quoniem pulvis sumus.’

  ‘As a father has compassion on his children,’ said Theodore, ‘so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust.’ He got to his feet, but then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Father, I suppose… should I tell Father Matthew about the lie I told, and confess it at community chapter?’

  Father Peregrine sat looking up at him. His eyes were twinkling. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘from all I hear, Father Matthew has been zealous enough at pruning your unfruitful branches for one week. You have confessed your sin. It is done with. Put it behind you and get on with your work.’

  Brother Theodore made that text a work of art. Just at the end of it where it said, ‘He remembers that we are dust,�
�� he painted a little lark, emblem of the soul of man, rising up out of the dust in song.

  Mother got up from her chair and carefully carried the sleeping Cecily to her bed. ‘Sleep well, little Goldenhair,’ she said softly, as she tucked her in.

  ‘I like Brother Theo,’ murmured Beth’s drowsy voice, ‘but not Brother Matthew. Brother Matthew is a baddy.’

  ‘Father Matthew,’ corrected Mother. ‘Father, because he was a priest. Don’t you like him, little mouse? He was a very good monk, though.’

  ‘He wasn’t kind. Christians should be kind.’

  ‘That’s right, my love. Perhaps he was trying too hard. Perhaps he was thinking so hard about being good that he forgot to think about being kind.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I don’t like him,’ said Beth conclusively.

  ‘That’s because you like the rascals! You like Brother Tom best, don’t you, because he was a mischief. Enough of that now, though. Snuggle down to sleep. Melissa, are you staying here or coming down for a while?’

  ‘I’ll come down,’ I decided.

  ‘Me too!’ said Beth.

  ‘Ssh, quiet, Beth, you’ll wake Mary and Cecily. No, darling, you must stay in bed now. Melissa is a big girl, it’s not her bed time quite, but she’ll be up soon. Night-night now. I’ll leave the door open, and you won’t feel lonely.’

  Mother blew out the candle, and we went downstairs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Too Many Cooks

  Beth and Cecily and I used to get the most miserable colds as children; I can still remember the feeling. My nose would be blocked, all my sinuses throbbing painfully. The area under my nose would be sore with rubbing against my hanky; my lips would be cracked and dry from breathing through my mouth; my eyes would run and my head would feel as though it was full of porridge, thick and hot.